


Oh! You Pretty Things

by CloudAtlas



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Young Avengers (Comics)
Genre: Bisexual Kate Bishop, Canon Lesbian Character, Clint Barton & Kate Bishop Friendship, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Korean Kate Bishop, Making Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-21 17:47:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17647085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/pseuds/CloudAtlas
Summary: Clint wasn't available to be Kate's fake date for this awful dinner party so, like any self respecting adult, Kate advertised on Craigslist for one.





	Oh! You Pretty Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Odyle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odyle/gifts).



> Hey odyle, I hope you enjoy this! I didn't manage fake married, but fake girlfriends it totally close enough, right?
> 
> Beta'd by **inkvoices**. Title from David Bowie.

If Kate is going to blame anyone for this – and she is – she’d say this was all Clint’s fault. For two reasons, actually: firstly, for not being available to be her inappropriate date in the first place and, secondly, for saying, “Why don’t you advertise for someone on, like, MySpace or something?”

Obviously, Kate hadn’t advertised for a fake date on _MySpace_ , because this isn’t 2004. She’d used Craigslist, like any self-respecting individual looking for a fake date to take to the Christmas Dinner of a job they hated.

No alcohol was involved. At all. Honest.

But, oh God, she blames Clint. So, so much. She wouldn’t be having this problem if she’d been fake dating Clint.

“Sorry for being late, cariña,” the woman – America, this must be America – says, brushing a brief kiss against Kate’s cheek as she sits down. “The snow, y’know.” She thumps a motorcycle helmet down onto the table, causing the cutlery to rattle. “Doesn’t look like I’ve missed anything though.”

Every single person around the table is staring at America and Kate and it sends a thrill up Kate’s spine. Let them fucking judge, stuck up assholes. Kate’s going to be shot of this fucking orchestra in just under two weeks, bowing out after their last Christmas performance, and she can hardly wait.

“Hi, I’m America, Kate’s girlfriend,” America says, sticking her hand out to the nearest person, who so happens to be the wife of Anthony, the first violin. Anthony’s wife – Kate never even bothered to learn her name because she was _at least_ as bad as Anthony, if not worse – looks at America’s hand like it might bite her before tentatively taking it. “Kate’s told me a lot about you guys.”

Kate definitely hasn’t, past, “They’re all awful and stuck-up – except for Albert, who’s a darling.” But Albert is sitting two tables away because this orchestra _is the worst_ , so instead Kate is stuck with Anthony, his awful wife, and a bunch of racist old guys who only tolerate Kate because they’re worried she’ll call down Yo-Yo Ma – or the whole of China, or something equally bullshit – to kick their collective asses. Never mind that Kate’s _Korean_ , for fuck sake, and only half Korean to boot.

America’s grip looks like it’s made to break fingers though, which is somewhat of a consolation. Now everyone is looking at her warily, like they’re worried she’s going to ruin their livelihoods just by shaking their hands – musicians being understandably worried about damaging their hands.

Kate’s fighting to keep an incredulous, turned-on grin off her face.

America is better than she could possibly have hoped for. Kate’s ad had just asked for: “any individual, 20-40, willing to be a terrible fake date for a pretentious Christmas dinner party. Preference for women (most guests are Posh, White, and homophobic) but anyone can apply.” The vagueness had been deliberate. Kate would have happily taken anyone from a tattooed silver fox with a massive beard to the kind of petite girl in pastels who gives a strong impression of enjoying being tied up and flogged. As long as they weren’t creeps, and would piss off her orchestra, she really didn’t care.

_Obviously_ she and Clint vetted them, though. She’s not stupid.

America though, America’s _perfect_. They’d intended to meet up an hour or so before tonight’s dinner to hash out a plan and generally get comfortable around each other, but the snow had put paid to that idea, and as a result Kate was _underprepared, oh my God_. From messaging her beforehand, Kate already knew she was an attractive Latina who practically embodies the phrase ‘hot scowl’, but this is a whole other level.

America clearly _rides a motorcycle_ which: holy crap. Her eyeliner is so sharp it could cut glass, she’s wearing _leather trousers_ and a _leather jacket_ like a _suit_ , complete with a white shirt and black tie, and her nails are painted rainbow proud. Her earrings are huge gold discs peeking out of unruly black curls and Kate can see tattoos of stars on the insides of her wrists.

Her smirk is downright _wicked_.

Kate wants to be fucked by her in a fancy hotel bathroom so badly her nipples are fucking tightening despite the fact that she’s literally surrounded by people she hates. _Jesus Christ_.

“You look nice, chica,” America says into the silence, once it’s clear that no one else is going to speak. She tips her head to one side, her smirk becoming more pronounced. “Purple really is your colour.”

Kate’s only wearing a standard halter neck dress, its single distinguishing feature a thigh-high slit up one side because, to reiterate, she wants to piss off this orchestra. But she might have opened her legs, just a little, to make that slit even more obvious to America. Maybe.

Someone across the table – maybe Clive, the timpanist – mutters something just on the edge of hearing about _propriety_ , causing Kate and America to break their rather intense staring match. America scowls across the table and Kate tries not to drool at the sight. Instead, she sends Clint a surreptitious text from under the table.

[Clint, this girl is literally the hottest person I have ever seen in real life. Help.]

“Excuse me, Miss?” A waiter has approached, arms laden with their starters. Kate shoves her phone back into her clutch. “Would you mind moving your helmet?”

There’s definitely a cloakroom. America didn’t need to bring her helmet to the table. _She’s perfect_.

“Lo siento,” Kate hears America mutter, her combative tone dropped in favour of genuine contrition. The waiter replies with a quiet, “Obrigada.”

“So, America,” Anthony’s wife tries, once all the starters have been handed out, having clearly also heard America’s slip into Spanish, “Where are you from?”

“Richmond,” America replies.

“I mean, originally.”

America’s smile is full of knives. “Richmond,” she says again.

Anthony’s wife blushes and looks away.

“Oh my God,” Kate breathes out, unable to repress her reactions any longer. “ _Oh my God_. This is brilliant. This is _amazing_.”

“Sure looks like it, cariña. Eat up,” America covers for her, her voice all casual command. She smirks when she sees Kate comply, and Kate can’t help but blush.

The entire dinner continues on in much the same manner. America is bullish and unapologetic while being simultaneously fiercely intelligent. She argues with Valerie The Terrible about the contribution of South Americans to the global music scene, she makes scathing sarcastic remarks every time Maurice makes a thinly veiled racist comment, which is about every second sentence, and she straight up tells Clive to shut up when he decides to have a go at a waitress who accidentally drops her tray.

Kate’s not sure she’s been this turned on _in her life_. She hardly eats any of the food in front of her despite America’s insistence and she ends up drinking way too much wine, eyes firmly fixed on America’s profile.

Clint’s reply arrives sometime during dessert, the buzz of her phone forcing her to tear her gaze away from America for a moment, and she’s honestly scared to open the message because he’s out with Natasha and Bucky tonight and Kate… really doesn’t want to think about what they’re doing together. Like, at all.

She swipes her phone open anyway.

[I take it she’s hot then] Clint has replied.

[She turned up in *leather*.]

She’s distracted enough by their text conversation that America sends her a questioning look.

“My best friend’s giving me life advice,” Kate offers, trying to will away her blush.

“Is it good?” America asks.

[Shit girl. Go fuck in the bathroom] Clint sends.

“I’m leaning towards yes.” Kate says.

She looks around. The dinner is winding down now and the rest of the people around their table have finally taken the executive decision to just ignore them both, which is honestly a relief. She happens to catch Albert’s eye from two tables away and he gives her a not-so-subtle thumbs up. Kate takes it as a sign.

“Excuse me a moment,” she says, giving America a significant look, “I just need to use the facilities,” and she makes sure to add an extra sway in her hips as she heads towards the toilets.

The bathrooms at this hotel are all gilt and mirrors and marble, almost sterile. She honestly didn’t think she’d ever long for the tiny little bathroom of the place she shares with Clint, but she does. Theirs feels like a room people actually use; this just feels like the set of a photoshoot. That being said, America is going to look amazing in this lighting. If she turns up, that is.

Oh God, Kate hopes she turns up.

“Hey chica.”

Kate whirls around from where she was staring at her reflection in the gilt mirror like an idiot to find America leaning against a bathroom stall. Kate hadn’t even heard the door.

“Hi,” Kate replies, slightly breathless at the sight of America’s legs wrapped in tight leather. Oh God, her thighs are perfect. “You’re wearing heels.”

America immediately looks nonplussed. “Yes?”

“I thought – ” Kate flounders. “I’d pegged you as a biker boots type of person.”

“They’re my mom’s,” America says, her face clearly showing she’s confused by the direction of this conversation. “Or, one of my moms. I figured biker boots would be taking it a bit _too_ far.”

There’s an extended silence, where they both just stare at each other.

“How many moms do you have?” Kate asks eventually, regretting this line of conversation completely because the light is making America’s legs shine and Kate’s having real trouble looking away, and they could be doing _far more interesting things_ than talking right now.

America shrugs. “Three.”

“How – ?” Kate starts, before deciding it doesn’t matter. “Never mind.” She opens and closes her mouth a couple of times. What she _wants_ is to find a non-creepy way of saying ‘please eat me out until I scream,’ but in the end what actually leaves her mouth is, “Are you really from Richmond?”

Clint might be the bigger human disaster out of the two of them, but that doesn’t mean that Kate isn’t also a mess.

“No.” America gives her an assessing look. “Is that really what you got me in here to ask? Because I can think of several better things we could be doing right now.”

“Do any of them involve your hands on my thighs?”

America raises a perfect eyebrow.

“They _can…_ ” she says before all but forcing Kate up onto the edge of the marble sink and fusing their mouths together.

America kisses exactly like Kate would expect a woman in leather to kiss, which is, thankfully, _exactly_ how Kate likes to be kissed; demanding, a little rough, and a lot in charge. Kate sinks her hands in America’s hair – something she’d been itching to do for almost the entire meal – and arches into her, hooking one foot around her knee while she’s at it because seriously, America is not close enough, not _nearly_ close enough.

“Damn, chica,” America mumbles into the skin of her neck, “wrapped up so pretty. Makes me wanna mess you up so bad.”

She slides an arm around Kate’s waist and pulls her, impossibly, closer. Kate makes a high-pitched, cut-off whine that she’ll deny to her dying day. Oh God, America is jacked – Kate’s fairly sure that’s a _six-pack_ she can feel.

America’s hand is making its way up Kate’s leg, bee-lining to the slit in her dress and inching up the back of her thigh. If she gets any higher, she’s going to discover Kate’s wearing the least sexy panties ever – with Kermit the Frog on – but Kate honestly doesn’t care. She wants America’s hands on her _everywhere_ , especially inside her novelty Kermit panties, public restroom be damned.

So of course, that’s when someone else walks into the bathroom.

America grabs Kate and swings her into a stall so quick Kate almost falls over and they end up pressed up against the door, so close Kate can’t even focus on America’s face properly. She feels ridiculous; like she’s eleven and not twenty-four, hiding from her mom after trying to steal cookies. Catching America’s eye doesn’t help, it just makes her want to break out into uncontrollable giggles. And then America points and Kate sees her dress has got caught in the door, and she can’t help it; she buries her face in America’s neck and laughs so hard she’s worried she might actually fall over.

America just slides her arms around her waist and holds her up.

Whoever’s in the bathroom takes their sweet time, but they apparently never notice the slash of purple caught in the door of one of the stalls or Kate and America completely failing at muffling their giggles. Not that that’s any surprise; Kate has literally never worked for an orchestra full of such dumbasses.

Oh God. It could be Grace though.

Grace is Albert’s wife and together the two of them are _terrible_. They’re absolute shit stirrers, a skill honed well before they eloped in the 60s because marrying a black woman was _not_ _proper_. Kate swears Albert stays with this orchestra purely for the drama, but she’s unable to convince literally anyone of this fact because Albert is ‘such a sweet old man.’ Bullshit. Albert is a terror. Kate loves him.

If it’s Grace, the two of them are going to be _insufferable_. And that’s without them knowing Kate met America through an ad on Craigslist.

Eventually, they hear the hand dryer and then the bathroom door click shut. There’s a beat of silence before America attempts to pull away, but Kate doesn’t let go.

“Oh, so we’re staying in the bathroom for the rest of the night?” America asks, one perfect eyebrow raised.

Kate rolls her eyes in response and unwraps her arms from around her waist, immediately feeling colder as America steps away.

“Your hair’s a mess, chica,” America says, something very close to fondness colouring her tone as she tucks a strand of hair behind Kate’s ear.

Kate fights her blush and loses. “And whose fault is that?”

America shrugs unapologetically and then takes her hand. “C’mon, chica. Let’s get this over with.”

They exit the bathroom stall and, with the help of the ridiculous gilt mirrors, take a moment to fix themselves. America’s shirt is almost completely untucked and her tie’s askew. Kate stops fixing her lipstick in favour of watching America straighten her shirt, the pull of the material over her breasts mesmerising. America gives her a sly smile when she notices Kate watching and fuck, but she’s gorgeous.

“Here,” America says once she’s done. She approaches Kate, standing way too close, and brings her hand up to swipe her thumb just along the edge of her bottom lip. “Can’t have you going out there with smudged lipstick now, can we?”

She then ruins it by kissing Kate so soundly Kate’s worried she’d going to pass out, before grabbing her hand and dragging her back into the restaurant.

Kate’s sure she’s blushing so hard she’s practically glowing, but she’s also grinning like she’s won the lottery. The hottest girl she’s seen in ages wanted to make out with her at her shitty orchestra Christmas dinner. Her life is amazing right now.

She catches Albert’s eye as she passes his table on the way back to her own and he gives her a shit-eating grin and surreptitious thumbs up while, next to him, Grace gives her a smirk and a single, approving nod. It was undoubtedly Grace who came into the bathroom earlier. Thank God neither of them uses social media or anything, because otherwise she’d probably be the subject of the most embarrassing old person trolling.

Their entire table side-eyes them as they sit back down again, a good fifteen minutes after they left. The plates have been cleared and coffees have been handed out to those who want it. Shit, Kate missed the coffee. A little distressed sound escapes her, completely involuntarily, and America shoots her an amused look, laced with heat. Well, never mind. She can live with no coffee as long as America keeps shooting her looks like _that_.

As the orchestra director stands up to make some, undoubtedly dull, speech, Kate leans over to America, her lips just brushing the shell of her ear. “You wanna just leave?”

“Hell yeah. My feet are killing me.”

Clint’s staying over at Natasha's tonight (or maybe Bucky’s – Kate doesn’t know and doesn’t want to ask), so Kate has their apartment to herself. This literally couldn’t be more perfect.

“I’m sure we can go somewhere you can put your feet up,” she replies with a grin.

America pulls back to hit her with the full force of her grin. “Sounds good to me.”

“Shh!” hisses Anthony’s wife as the orchestra director begins to drone.

America sends her a cool look and, as they get up to leave, makes a point of knocking the table pretty hard with her helmet. Anthony’s wife squeaks and Clive pushes his chair abruptly backwards to avoid the spreading pool of hot coffee from his no-longer-full cup. They walk away from their table hand in hand, Kate adding an extra swing to her hips because _fuck this orchestra_.

“Did you actually come on your motorbike?” Kate leans over to ask, envisioning disappearing into the sunset on a Harley Davidson, wrapped around a leather-clad America while her dress streams out behind her. Unrealistic? Yes. Does she want to do it anyway? _Hell yes_.

But America snorts in response. “Nah. You seen the snow? Only a dumbass goes out in this. I got the Metro.”

Wow. Disappointing. Still, at least the Metro line here is practically direct to her place and the station is just around the corner. She slips on her coat and tucks her hand into the crook of America’s elbow.

“So… you wanna come ‘round to mine?”

America smiles. “Yeah, I think so.”

Kate just might have to get Clint a fruit basket or something for this. Best idea he’s had… probably ever.


End file.
